


Sliding Doors

by AceQueenKing



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, COPIOUS, Copious Cursing, Gen, Mass Effect 2 Setting, Omega-setting, Pre-Mass Effect: Andromeda, Unknown Father and Son Sit Down and Have Drinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Zaeed and Bain's paths cross but once.
Relationships: Bain Massani & Zaeed Massani
Comments: 14
Kudos: 14
Collections: Spectre Requisitions 2020





	Sliding Doors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThreeWhiskeyLunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/gifts).



Zaeed’s enjoying what is quite possibly the last fuckin’ beer of his god damn life when the kid walks in.

It’s a good god damn beer; he’s rich with the most credits he’s ever had in his life, thanks to Mister Illusive Man, who signs with no god damn questions asked on Zaeed’s request for “hazard pay” and “payment upfront.” Illusive Man doesn’t ask Zaeed if he’s worried about or what he wants the money for if he ain’t coming back; truth is, won’t much god damn matter then, but for now well – Zaeed is getting a good fucking beer. And it is good – not a lot of head, nice taste, fuckin’ earth-grown barley: a classic.

And then the kid comes in and he almost spills it when kid looks over at him, eyes squintin’ like he’s trying to decide if Zaeed is a particularly nice target or not. Glass eye means sometimes boys think shit like that; a few rounds with Jessie usually teaches them the better.

Or would if they’d survived it.

He wonders if it’s that Shepard for a moment – doesn’t look the army type though, and Army Types, as a rule, don’t have equipment like that. Nothing in that Armax suit is standard reg, least of all the white camo. His good eye flitters over the boy, takes in the gun on the belt buckle. Probably a smaller pistol in the boot too – a little bit of a gap there, bigger than it should be if the boots fit proper. Not a bloody thing regulation. For half a second, his grip goes to his own weapon, fingers just lightly grazin’ the corner of her – but the kid don’t pull and so Zaeed don’t pull and after a minute of makin’ moon-eyes at Zaeed, the fuckin kid goes to sip his beer. Which, annoyingly, is the same as Zaeed’s beer.

Kid’s got money, he thinks. More money than sense if he’s buying the good stuff like this in this shithole of space, wearin’ that sort of suit. Kid sticks out – and not in a good way. Truth is, _Afterlife’s_ an appropriate enough bar for an old dog like him – he and Patriarch some of the most god damned seasoned fucks in this system – and while the kid don’t scream amateur, he does scream easy pickins’. For one thing, he’s young, but he’s dressed better’n most of the young bucks who come to Afterlife. Tend to be the poor kids who fumble up to the big leagues too early; kids who thought they were hot shit for managin’ to eek out a bit of a livin’ on Omega, who dreamed of all the distasteful jobs they’d do just to earn shit wages for shitty fucking work.

Ah, fuck, kid’s lookin’ at him again. Kind of reminds him of someone, though he can’t think of fucking who – some woman, at some point. Maybe Maria; that girl had a mouth built for sucking cock if ever anyone did, and the boy’s got the same sort of mouth. Zaeed ain’t opposed to doing the menfolk, but the way this kid looks at him, all quiet, makes him pause. That look ain’t hungry; it’s downright odd. A bit depressing.

“Hey,” Zaeed tosses down his empty glass; the turian bartender asks if he wants another, he shakes his head. He’ll drink again in a few minutes after he’s figured out the kid’s deal. Worst case scenario is kid’ll pull his piece, and then Zaeed’ll pull his, and Zaeed goes down in what’ll either be the most epic bar-fight of all time or at least a major dry-cleaning expense for Aria. Worse ways to go.

But Zaeed’s penny has come up heads most of the time; he’s walked away from a lot of things that’ve killed other men.

“Hey,” the kid says. Guarded. He looks at Zaeed like he knows him, though the little shit can’t; Zaeed’s got the still-living members of his crew memorized. Which is bloody easy when there’s only five or six of ‘em. “You’re Zaeed Massani, right?”

“Fucking yes I am,” Zaeed says; this isn’t good. Some goon’s got a hit on him – maybe one of Vito’s boys, though he looks like he has half a brain so probably not. Still, he wants violence, he isn’t gonna get it.

Kid nods. Doesn’t go for his gun. Odd. “Names’ Bain,” he supplies. No last name. Odder still, but not uncommon on Omega. Still, kid’s accent doesn’t sound like he’s from here.

“Bain,” he says. Bain asks the bartender to bring him a drink; Zaeed asks for asari honeymead this time. Good to keep ‘em guessin’. “What brings you out to the tits end of the galaxy, eh?” Zaeed says. What he wants to ask is: how the _fuck_ do you know who I am. But he doesn’t. Sort of thing isn’t said, not out loud; not here.

“Signed up with the Andromeda Initiative.” Zaeed swallows his scoff into his glass – fat load of bullshit, that. If they could bloody well escape the reapers by running to another galaxy, whole galaxy would have done that years ago – put up the bloody Gone Fishin’ signs and fucked off somewhere new. Still, least the kid’s buying good drinks. “Figured I’d make sure I’m leavin’ without regrets.”

“That so?” He supposes it’s not a bad policy. If you’re gonna become a popsicle, best to make sure you ain’t got a single regret ‘fore you go full cryo. Lot of people never get out of it. “You’re an odd fucking _duck_ if you think this pisshole is worth sightseein’ though.” Not a lot of that “outer system” charm. No room to breathe here. No freedom unless it comes out of the milk of Aria’s god-damned fantastic tits.

“Hm. Well.” Bain drums his fingers on the table. Omega’s loud enough to drown it out. “More wanted to meet the man than the place. Seen enough places that smell like industrial coolant and vorcha.”

“God, them vorcha do smell like fuckin’ piss, don’t they,” he says, which for Zaeed is as demure as fuckin’ can be. He thinks, anyway. He can’t imagine the man the Bain’s meetin’ is himself – armor like that costs enough that he’s sure the kid either knows how to handle himself, or he’ll learn rather fast. Still, no harm in putting out a little commercial nibble. “Don’t look like you need a bodyguard.”

“No,” Bain says, throat sounding rather full of something odd. He doesn’t comment on it. Lots of people with secrets out here. “I don’t.” Zaeed finishes his drink; doesn’t order another one, and neither does the kid. They stare at one another there, just stare.

“Good luck, meetin’ your man.” If there’s no commercial business, it’s best he’s on his way.

“Wait, it’s just…” Bain looks at him, _really looks_ , like he’s staring deep down in Zaeed’s soul. “You regret it? The merc life?”

Zaeed stares at him – kid’s got business, and there’s something spooky about him. He wonders about that mouth, Maria’s _fucking_ mouth, and stares into eyes that seem more familiar than they should. His hand tightens, his mouth feels suddenly dry.

But that’s all bullshit ain’t it? Maria’s long dead; tried to look her up ages ago, back on a return trip to New Catalonia. Deader than a doornail and nobody said _shit_ about next of kins; ain’t no way.

He chuckles, shakes his head. “Not a damn one, son.” If Bain notices that son comes out in an uncharacteristic waiver, well, neither of them comment on it. “Dog eat dog world out there. People like me are just a bit more bloody honest about it.”

“Live without regrets, eh?” Bain says; he sounds like he’s thinkin’ about something, and whatever it is, it’s not Zaeed’s business.

“You’re god damn right.” He stretches, stands; bloody Shepard ought to be here any minute and he’s got credits to burn. “Safe travels, Bain.”

“Safe travels,” kid says; he tips the bartender and doesn’t look back as he turns around, vanishing into the underbelly of Afterlife.

Zaeed stares at his own drinks; hadn’t told the kid thanks for the freebie but oh well. “Hey, barkeep. Yeah, you, you blue-blooded bastard.” The turian bartender does not bloody look phased. “That kid comes back, give him a free drink on me, eh?” He tosses down a handful of credits; kid could drink himself to death on that or have some fun in the backroom from the “private” dancers. Suppose it’s the best he can give’em. What’s the point of having money if he can’t be bloody fuckin’ generous?

The turian nods, like this is bloody normal; barely seems to listen. “No cheatin’ him, neither. You don’t take one fuckin’ cent, you hear?” The turian blinks, nods stiffly.

“Good.” He cracks his neck, tries to get back his usual demeanor. Gotta be looking professional for the soldier. “Bloody fucking good.”

Zaeed stands up, walks out of _Afterlife_ , keepin’ a bit of an eye out for the kid. But he doesn’t see him.

Their paths, it seems, just ain’t meant to cross for long.


End file.
